


They call them classics for a reason

by elzed



Category: The OC (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: Written back in 2007 for the Fourth OC Sentence Fiction Challenge (organised by the ever-marvellousctoan). Posted here and now because... I felt like it.Prompt:Taylor never expected her surprise to have that effect on Ryan.Spoilers:Up to and including season 4 finaleBetaed by that queen of editors, the late and very much missedovernighter.
Relationships: Ryan Atwood/Taylor Townsend
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	They call them classics for a reason

It all begins on a damp Thursday morning, the third day in a row that Taylor finds herself alone in the Berkeley home of the Cohens, a victim – again – of the discrepancy between the spring breaks of French and American students. 

At least it’s the last time, since her application to transfer to Stanford’s department of linguistics has been accepted, and she is only finishing her term out of politeness and an old-fashioned sense of commitment Ryan understands, even if her mother dismisses it as yet another of Taylor’s foibles. 

After Saturday, their schedules will finally overlap, and the last week of her stay should be blissful. Sandy and Kirsten have already decamped to Rhode Island by way of New York City – taking Sophie to visit her namesake grandmother, and mollify her yet again for the naming _faux pas_ – leaving behind them little to occupy Taylor. What tidying there is to do in the house, courtesy of Sophie’s ever-expanding pool of toys dragged from place to place, has been long done. The Cohens left Tuesday. 

Now there is nothing to fill the endless hours before Ryan’s return – sometime around 4 this afternoon or so. Yesterday was kitchen-scrubbing day, and a quick survey reveals spotless, uncluttered granite counters and a stove so polished that even the weak sunlight struggling through the morning fog raises a gleam. Taylor is nothing if not thorough.

Maybe she should borrow Ryan’s car, as he urged her to when he left this morning in Sandy’s Lexus, go shopping for some new season Georgia peaches and flour and butter and make some torte for this evening – something she could feed him on the tip of a fork, watching each bite of sweet pastry and fruit disappear into his mouth, and his slightly foolish, sated grin afterwards. 

Taylor closes her eyes, loses herself in the imagined moment, anticipating leisurely kisses on the couch, the sugary taste of his lips on hers, the feel of his hands on her waist, creeping up… 

She’s thrown out of the daydream abruptly when the doorbell rings and she’s forced to deal with reality in the shape of a pimply youth in a brown UPS uniform. He’s struggling with a box of legal documents addressed to Sandy Cohen which must easily weigh twenty pounds. It’s enough to make Taylor rejoice that she hasn’t picked law as a career. 

As she’s closing the door behind the delivery man – boy, really, he can’t have been older than her – she notices how dirty the Rover looks in the driveway. 

Last weekend Ryan took her for a hike in the hills in the rain, and apparently drove through a sea of mud at some point. The car is a mess – earth and grass encrusted in the high wheel rims, brown spatters of dried mud all over the bodywork. It’s so unlike Ryan to leave his car in such a state; she assumes he’s been too busy with her and the Cohens’ trip east to attend to it. 

Maybe she should clean it when she comes back from the grocery store, while the torte is baking, …

Sometimes it frightens her a little how easily she slips into the persona of the suburban fifties wife Betty Friedan turned her beady eye to in _The Feminine Mystique_. How much she enjoys it, this fantasy cocoon in which her life revolves around Ryan’s. It’s enough to make her cringe.

*******

Apparently, thoughts of The Problem Without A Name are not enough to stop her. 

Two hours later the house is filled with the comforting smell of baking pastry and the heady aroma of peaches, the Fifties picture complete. Taylor contemplates getting her hair set and acquiring a frilly apron, then perhaps completing the outfit with a quick lobotomy. She shakes her head and decides to tackle the car instead, wash the nonsense out of her brain. 

The day has brightened considerably, and for the first time this week it actually feels hot – more like a May morning in Newport Beach than in Berkeley. The faded blue shirt of Ryan’s she shrugged on earlier is warmer than she thought; after she’s tackled the rear wheel rims, Taylor swaps it for one of his wifebeaters, matching it with an ancient pair of denim cutoffs from the bottom of her bag. 

It’s vigorous exercise, cleaning the Rover, and oddly exhilarating. The paint-spattered radio she found in the garage is belting some classic rock tunes, and Taylor is losing herself in the physical exertion of scrubbing the car, ponytail swinging to the beat. Between the warmth of the sun’s rays on her bare skin and the spring breeze heavy with the scent of burgeoning sap, a ball of heat is growing in her belly, insistent. 

By the time she’s on her third bucket of soapy water and the car is mostly back to shiny black, the vague heat has mutated into intense horniness – to the extent that Taylor promises herself a little fun with the shower head when she cleans herself up. Until then, she will have to improvise, straddling the hood and grinding against the thick seam of her shorts as she reaches across the windshield with her dripping sponge. 

Precisely at this point, a car pulls up behind her and she hears a door slam. 

Caught by surprise, Taylor almost drops the sponge in her haste to get off the hood – she’s extremely conscious that she doesn’t look remotely as innocent as she’d like to, especially from behind.

“Don’t move.” The voice is low, almost a growl, and she _knows_ how turned on he is – months of having to rely on phone sex (and its shameless sister, webcam sex) means she can now tell exactly how aroused Ryan is the minute he opens his mouth, so attuned are they to each other. 

If her panties were damp earlier, they’re soaked now.

For at least a whole minute, nothing happens. The burn between her legs reaches near nuclear proportions in the silence, as she imagines Ryan raking his eyes up and down her body, following the line of her (wet, soap-streaked) legs all the way to the frayed edge of her cutoffs and beyond, until she feels naked and spread out for him, aching with need.

When he finally touches her, fingertips sliding up her inner thigh, stopping just short of her pants to hold her, his thumb pressed into the soft flesh, she whimpers. 

He’s standing just behind her, leans in, his breath hot on her neck. Every muscle in her body is tense and she starts shaking. 

“You’re so hot,” he whispers against her skin. “I don’t know if you know how fucking hot you are right now, if you have any idea, but I want to fuck you and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Taylor is still amazed that she managed to convince Ryan to go for the whole phone sex thing – it took a lot of wanton provocation on her part before he gave in to the urge and started really talking dirty to her – but she is infinitely grateful for it. His voice can turn her into a quivering lustful wreck in a matter of seconds, and since he realized its power he’s learned to use it.

His hand has let go of her thigh and is crawling up under her shirt, wrapping around her waist and pulling her up until her back is pressed to him, his erection (rock hard, oh dear God) nudging into the small of her back. 

Time to regain some composure. A couple of deep breaths, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns, finally, to look at him. The hunger in his eyes almost sends her over the edge. 

“So is this a booty call, Atwood?” 

“Is now,” he smirks.

“Is that why you came home so early?”

“I missed you. But if I’d known you were gonna be wielding sponges and buckets of soapy water I’d have been here earlier.” His voice is still husky but he, too, has pulled himself together.

“Oh, so you like sudsy girls, huh?” Taylor says, grinning. 

“What if I do?” He draws her tighter against his body, his rock hard cock, lets one hand wander down between her legs. 

“Um… I guess I should wash your car more often?” she ventures, giggling, a red blush mottling her neck as he starts stroking her through her shorts. “Stop! We’re out in the open… anybody could see us!” Which would be part of the fun, except that this _is_ the Cohens’ house.

“Inside,” he commands, and marches her through the door, a prisoner in his arms, so aroused she can barely stand. They just make it through the door and he pushes her against the wall, shoves up her ( _his_ ) wifebeater and starts mouthing her bare skin, alternately biting and licking her stomach, swirling up towards her breasts, tender and jutting through her flimsy bra. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says, her voice breaking into a moan. Ryan stops licking her and looks ruefully at her, with a little smile. 

“Obviously, because I’m an ass,” he says, and buries his face in between her breasts, eliciting another moan. He edges towards one nipple, sucks it gently, stops and pulls away again, looking thoughtful.

“Actually, I think it was because after the whole Henri-Michel thing I didn’t want you to think I was an unsophisticated hick. And – well, as sexual fantasies go, it is a little… well, _pedestrian_. As Seth would say.”

“Oh. _Seth_ knew?” Why is she not surprised? She can just imagine Seth sounding blasé about the whole thing. Not that she’s ever had direct experience with Seth’s, uh, technique, but Summer and Taylor _talk_ , and there’s no such thing as TMI in Taylor’s vocabulary, so she has a few inklings about Seth and Summer’s sex life.

“Doesn’t matter. Forget it. Forget Seth, forget I was an ass, just… go on washing cars and windows in wet, soapy, skimpy clothing, okay?” His mouth is back on her erect, tender nipple, teasing it to a peak, and Taylor finds she can’t frame a snappy comeback. Or even a lame one – words are jumbled in her brain, and all she can think is _Holy crap_ and _God please, please, yes_ and _Quit teasing and fuck me now_. None of which works if she’s still trying to pretend she hasn’t lost the upper hand. After all, if this is _his_ fantasy, she should be in control, right? Right?

Ryan obviously hasn’t gotten the message, because now he’s popped her bra open and is sucking hard on her other nipple, which appears to be wired to her clit, and Taylor grinds her crotch into his thigh, making small inarticulate animal noises that she wishes she could contain. 

His hand has migrated back to the front of her shorts, pressing the seam into her clit with almost clinical precision, rubbing just fast enough, hard enough to kickstart the first tingles of approaching orgasm. She’s all senses now, barely any conscious thoughts, her brain processing random input. The rough texture of the plaster scraping against her bare shoulders, bright stripes of light on the cream wall, flickering with the breeze through the Venetian blinds; the sound of her own breathing, labored, and her heart beating savagely in her temples, her throat. 

There’s also a crisp, rich, sweet smell tickling her nose. She can’t quite identify it, doesn’t care anymore because she’s in the home stretch, the wave of pleasure rising within her now unstoppable, _ohgodohgodohgod Ryan I’m coming_ , and maybe she said it out loud or maybe she just screamed without words, but she can just hear him urging her on “Good girl, give it up, go on, come for me,” voice scratchy and erotic and familiar all at once, through the rush and peak and slow comedown of her climax. 

At which point her upstairs brain kicks back into action.

“Shit! The torte!” It’s a scramble to free herself from Ryan’s strong embrace, but Taylor knows she has only a few minutes to stop that ripe peach and golden pastry smell turning into scorched crust and burnt sugar. 

It’s only when the torte is safely cooling on a wire rack that she turns to find Ryan leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, a feral look in his eyes as he stares her out – and Taylor realizes she’s still half-naked, bra tangled in the wifebeater somewhere around her neck, shorts half-unbuttoned, wet patch on her throbbing crotch. She looks like a crack whore, feels like one too – except her crack is Ryan’s dick, the bulge in his jeans as obvious as anything and as enticing as… frankly she can’t think of a comparison, because nothing in her life has ever seemed as desirable as his thick hard cock. _Nothing._

It’s enough to make her whimper and drop to her knees in front of him, as if she were worshipping at his altar (somehow scarily close to the truth, even if Ryan also worships at the temple of her cunt, but she wishes her mind would stop coming up with religious imagery when they fuck. It’s not _healthy_.)

There’s a switch that goes in Taylor’s brain sometimes when they have sex that seems to turn her into a rabid bitch in heat, stripped of words and dignity and everything except raw need and desire. She reaches a state of near-orgasmic excitation that needs barely any stimulation to make her come. It’s both awesome and – well, _awesome_. As in it freaks her out.

On the plus side, it never happened with anyone else, not even Henri-Michel, so perhaps it really is love. 

She’s reached his knees now, and is mouthing the denim up his legs until she reaches his zipper and catches it between her teeth. She can see Ryan’s amused gaze if she looks up, but she knows he’s a cat’s whisker from letting go of his control, and his cock springs from his jeans like a jack in the box, nearly thwacking her cheek. 

The purple head is weeping, and she’s using her most delicate moves on him, tongue swirling around the tip, licking his shaft with agonizing precision and care. There’s a subtle game of one-upmanship going on here, a little ego wrestling – a reminder that he might be able to make her come just like that through her pants, but that her blowjobs have been known to turn grown men into babbling idiots. On reflection, not such a challenge. Still. 

Taylor’s transitioned to the Popsicle suck (hollow cheeks, lingering tongue) when Ryan’s hand lands on her head, tugging gently away and up. Now there’s a surprise – usually by now he’d be pulling her closer, going deep. 

“When I said I wanted to fuck you, I meant it,” he growls, and he spins Taylor around so she’s facing the kitchen table (a gleaming expanse of blond wood, just begging to be used and abused), and pushes her shoulders down so she folds in at the waist, legs shaking with anticipation. 

Ryan wastes no time, hooking his fingers into her belt loops and swiftly divesting her of shorts and panties before running his hands back up her smooth legs, spreading them apart roughly.

The polished tabletop is cold against Taylor’s body as she presses against it, belly and breast and cheek flattened onto its surface in willing submission. Every part of her body is wanting and waiting, offering itself up to Ryan in the most basic and pornographic manner – _I am yours, take me, use me, fuck me_ – trembling like a fucking racehorse under every touch of his thumbs skimming the crack of her ass, her wet palpitating cunt. 

Ryan keeps one hand on her back, anchoring her against the table, the sharp edge digging into her hipbones, and kisses his way down her spine. He uses his mouth on her, broad flat swipes of tongue from clit to ass, teasing, licking up and down, each warm, wet, assured touch making her moan and wriggle in his grasp as she tries to spread her legs wider, to nudge his mouth and tongue deeper inside to fill what now feels like an aching void.

There’s a lengthy pause which leaves her quivering with anticipation and then the head of Ryan’s cock nudges against her slippery cunt, slides easily in, and Taylor lets out a long low whine.

It’s ramrod hard and when he’s balls deep in her it almost hurts but she doesn’t care, pushes her ass back and spreads out her arms to brace herself. He grunts with each thrust, caveman-like ( _so hot_ ) and she moans in counterpoint, a rising rhythmic melody punctuated by the sound of flesh slapping against flesh and occasional slick wet suction noises.

She’s so far gone now, spiraling back into another slow explosion of the senses, her orgasm this time summoned from the very depths of her loins, and she can hear herself muttering and cursing from afar, as if she was underwater, a litany of “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, harder, oh fuck me” that tips Ryan over the edge as his cock swells further inside her, a sure precursor to his release.

When Taylor comes it’s with a combination of shuddering breaths and uncontrollable shaking that goes on well past the last spasms of her climax and leaves her utterly spent and useless after Ryan pulls out and collapses on top of her. She can feel come leaking down her thighs and onto the tabletop – so fucking _gross_ , she’ll need to scrub it again with bleach – but God, was it worth it.

“That was fucking awesome,” Ryan mutters into her shoulder. “You ok?”

She’d nod but Ryan’s wedged her against the table, so she settles for an unintelligible mutter, waiting for her body to recover before she even attempts to stand.

“What?”

She summons her last reserves of energy.

“I’m saying I feel thoroughly fucked.”

Ryan grins against her neck. “That’ll teach you to wash the car without warning.”

“Well it’s not what I was expecting when I got that bucket out...”

“But?” he prompts her.

“…I don’t think the Cohens will be taking the Rover to the carwash anytime soon,” she says, giggling as the relaxed exhaustion spreads through her. “And Ryan?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Anymore of those pedestrian fantasies I should know about?” she asks, with as much sauciness as she can muster in her blissfully satisfied state.

“Well, now you mention it – you don’t happen to own a pair of roller skates, do you?”

 _Fin_.


End file.
